


Him, Me, and Us

by EllieRose101



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: F/M, Season/Series 07
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-06
Updated: 2020-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:07:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23039071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EllieRose101/pseuds/EllieRose101
Summary: A retelling of the Season Seven episode ‘Him’ in which Spike inadvertently gets his hands on an enchanted jacket, earning him both the highly sought after attention of the Slayer, and all the issues and complications that come along with that, too. Be careful what you wish for!
Relationships: Spike/Buffy Summers
Comments: 1
Kudos: 45





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I have chosen not to display warnings for this fic, not because it doesn't have any, but because they're a little complicated and I thought it was better to explain here. Due to the effect of magic in the story, the sex depicted is definitely what I would consider 'dub-con.' I'm not sure I would go as far as to call it rape, however. Reader discretion is advised.

Having just moved into Xander’s apartment, Spike was trying to spend as much time out and about as possible. A lot of the time he’d cruise bars, or go patrolling, but every so often he found himself in the mall.

As much as he hated himself for what he’d turned into, and as much as he told himself it was pointless, he found himself glancing up and down the aisles of clothes, wondering which items Buffy might like to see him in.

_Already changed everything on the inside, might as well change the cover while I’m at it_ , he thought to himself. He really didn’t think it would make a difference, and he knew that he didn’t deserve a second chance, but it wasn’t in Spike’s nature to just let things go.

Frustrated with the choice in the first three stores he tried, he stomped out the back of the building and looked up at the night sky. Cursing his lack of money, his conscience’s unwillingness to let him steal shirts, or even steal money from Harris to buy some rightfully, he went as far as cursing himself, and the mess of an existence he was living: pathetic, chipped, and living on the mercy of people who had no reason to like him.

Spike was jolted out of self-loathing when he heard a scream from the next alley over and went to investigate. There he found two vamps hassling an old lady. The first he dispatched quickly, but the second was getting the better of him, as his heart wasn’t really in the violence, these days.

When he was shoved none too lightly against something metal and it swung back and hit him hard across the legs and shoulders, however, Spike found his motivation to end the bloodsucking jerk.

The dust of the second vampire floating around him, Spike looked up to see the lady he’d saved had scarpered.

“You’re welcome,” he snarked at the empty alley, before reaching back and rubbing his sore muscles. After stretching them out a bit, he looked around to see what exactly had hit him.

To his right, a large, steel, clothing bank loomed over him, easily six inches taller than he was. The door was on the ground and the donated clothes were spilling out into the street.

Spike took to shoving them back in when something caught his eye – a jacket like one he’d once seen Captain Cardboard sporting. Dark in color, which was a win, but also more stylish in cut than Spike’s duster. It looked new, to boot.

After standing there for a while with the jacket in his hands, Spike cursed himself once more for having to justify taking it, even to himself. He was a big bad – was supposed to live on the dark side, and taking a charity donation probably wasn’t all that bad anyway. Whoever owned it clearly didn’t want it, and he was in need. Changing tact, the other part of Spike criticized himself for being so easily tempted. That said, the jacket was kind of calling out to him….

“Bugger this!” he exclaimed, throwing the jacket back into the pile, slamming the door awkwardly back onto its hinges and then kicking it for good measure, too.

Once more, the door fell at his feet.

He heaved a sigh.

There was one way to solve his problem without the moral dilemma, he realized: he’d let fate decide. If he put on the jacket and it didn’t fit then, well, it just wasn’t meant to be. If it did fit, however, it would be like direct permission from the Powers That Be, right?

He slipped it on and instantly felt better about himself. Not too tight, but not too loose, it made him wish he had a reflection.

“This will do,” he muttered, before heading back in the direction of Xander’s.

Spike had gotten bored of just wandering around for one night and, plus, there were three pints of pig’s blood waiting for him in the whelp’s fridge. Okay, so pig’s blood wasn’t exactly appetizing compared to the human stuff, but it would do. He trudged on and, as he got closer to the apartment, he caught a whiff of the most welcome scent: worked up, pissed off, Slayer.

Spike smirked to himself, but the expression died on his face moments later. _You don’t deserve her_ , some part of his brain reminded him, as he pushed open the door.

She was standing with her hands on her hips, looking back at him with a scowl. Looking glorious, he thought.

“Where’s Xander?” she asked.

“Don’t rightly know,” said Spike.

Buffy sighed and most of the annoyance on her face seemed to be exhaled with the breath.

“You need him for something?”

“Yeah,” replied Buffy, “I wanna beat seven bells outta him for something he said to Dawn.”

Spike suddenly looked serious. “What he say?”

“What?” said Buffy, caught off guard by the sudden anger in his voice. He’d always been protective of her family, she recalled. “Oh, nothing that bad. He just, well….” She looked down at her hands and sighed again. “Apparently he gave her a little history lesson. About, y’know… us. Our… history.”

“Oh,” Spike deflated again and looked away. “Sorry. Should I say something? To Niblet, I mean? I don’t want her to think badly of you. Not that she would but, erm… Buffy?”

While he’d rambled, Buffy had approached him and reached out to touch the lapel of his jacket. “Is this new?”

Guilt flooded through him. Guilt and, was it warmth? It had been a lifetime since she’d been in his personal space. Suddenly, his guilt multiplied tenfold, as he remembered exactly why he’d lost the privilege of her touch in the first place. He stepped back, but she stepped with him.

He looked at her and realized he hadn’t answered the question. “Yeah, new,” he said, before once again questioning, “Buffy?”

“Shh,” she replied, pressing her lips to his. 


	2. Chapter 2

It was a dream. It must be. Spike just couldn’t figure out if it was a good one or the bad variety.

“Buffy?” he tried saying again, but her lips were so tightly bound to his, he couldn’t get the word out. He had to use considerable force to push her away.

She pouted, then went straight back into launching herself at him.

No, not a dream. A trick, maybe?

He shoved her and she looked back at him, properly hurt. Guilt flooded through him in an instant. No matter what happened, no matter what she did to him, he’d vowed to never again hurt the girl; to never so much as raise his hand in threat. And how quickly he’d failed.

She was rubbing her arm and looking at him as if he’d just assaulted her. Which, of course, is exactly what he’d done. But he hadn’t meant it. Logically, some part of his brain was telling him that she was the Slayer, and a slight push – not a push, a _shove!_ he reminded himself – couldn’t possibly have hurt her. Yet she was still looking pitiful, and his guilt didn’t answer to logic.

Should he kneel at her feet? Should he run out the door? He was trapped in the indecision. “I’m sorry,” he said, chastising the words for not being good enough, even as he said them.

Suddenly, Buffy’s face went from injured-puppy into an earnest smile, and she approached again. Unable to push her away, and far beyond capable of standing so close to her without reacting, Spike hesitantly put his arms around her and hugged her close.

_What is going on?_ his mind yelled at him, as his guilt still tore at his insides. The demon side of him was demanding he take her – if not her blood, then her body. He knew how, and it was clear she was willing. How, he’d never quite know, but she was willing nonetheless. Wasn’t it what he wanted? To earn her approval and slip back into her bed? No. He shook his head. Not like this.

_What is going on?_ he demanded of himself again.

Her hands were trailing up and down his arms as he continued to hold her; his grip tightening automatically when she began kissing his neck.

_Can’t push her away, can’t push her away,_ came the litany in his head. He was going mad again. He’d have told himself it was another bloody hallucination, but her flesh was real beneath his touch, and it sang to him.

“Buffy?” he tried again desperately.

She let out a little noise of acknowledgment as she continued her caress of his neck with her tongue.

This isn’t her, he thought. She wouldn’t do this again, not after…. He couldn’t finish the thought. Spike shuddered. There had to be a reason. A trick, he’d thought earlier. But that wasn’t her style. Not anymore. She wouldn’t be so cruel.

A test, he considered next. A test made more sense. If he could resist her without resorting to violence, he might be worthy. Worthy or… under control? That must be it. She wanted proof he wasn’t still mad. He decided it must be true, but if she wanted him compos mentis, she was doing a great job of driving him crazy.

“Buffy, _please_!” he almost wept. If only she’d talk to him.

“Take me to bed,” she said in a heady whisper.

Spike nearly crumbled at the words, instantly regretting his desire to have her talk. “No,” he said, and he’d tried to sound firm, but it came out in a whimper.

_You’re pathetic_ , his demon yelled. And he agreed. The soul inside him was quick to remind him just how wretched he was.

Time was moving on, Buffy’s touch was getting more insistent, and Spike still couldn’t think of a thing to do. With any luck, Xander would be home soon and he’d sort it all out. Sort _him_ out, thought Spike with derision. He’d probably stake him just for the intimate embrace. And wouldn’t he deserve it? He had the most glorious creature in his arms and was refusing to worship her; refusing to stop this thing between them.

_I can’t bear it,_ he thought. _I can’t!_

And once more Buffy changed tact, suddenly going tense in his arms. Her mouth released his neck and he felt relief flood through him. It was going to end. She would come to her senses and it would all be over. He’d move out and never darken her door again.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

Spike laughed, high and almost hysterical. _Wrong? Everything was wrong. ‘Me!_ ’ He wanted to yell at her.

“Don’t you want me?” she pressed, pouting again.

He was broken. Floored. How could she think that? How could she ever think– “I can’t,” he said, interrupting even his own thoughts. “I want to. _God how I want to_.”

She smiled again.

“But I can’t,” he affirmed.

Once more her face dropped. “Is it someone else?”

“What?” he balked. “Someone else? Buffy, it’s only ever been you!”

“So what’s the damn problem?” she snapped, stamping her foot like a toddler and leaving a hole in Xander’s floor. “Just fuck me already!”

Eyes wide, Spike walked away. Once he was a safe distance from her, he turned the opposite direction, too.

Supporting his bodyweight with his arms as he leaned against a countertop in the kitchen, Spike clenched his teeth as he felt Buffy’s arms come around him. First, they slipped around his slim waist and then reached lower, to unzip him.

Just as Buffy reached inside his jeans to set his straining cock free, Spike spun around. Unable to take the pressure a single second longer, he pushed her back over the kitchen table and pressed himself against the full length of her body, kissing her deeply.


	3. Chapter 3

The blood was pumping inside Spike’s head so hard and fast that the rushing sound stopped him thinking. Everything was pure sensation – the soft yet firm skin of Buffy’s hands as she grasped at his arms tightly, the moisture on her lips, her scent.

Oh god, her scent! It called to him, took him over. He needed her. Couldn’t bear another moment of her glorious torture without diving the rest of the way into the abyss.

Like they’d done a hundred times before, his callused hands trailed a path up her thighs and slid under her skirt. In a single motion, he ripped away her panties.

She moaned and pushed herself up against him, grinding against his length. To what felt like a siren song welcoming him home, Spike glided himself into her to the hilt.

Then the world stopped. He paused and held his breath, feeling everything wash over him. It felt like her heat was melting him, and he had never felt so privileged to be burned.

Moments later, when he finally allowed himself to breathe again, Spike began to move. As desperate as he felt, their coupling was not frantic. Not slow, but steady; intense in its rhythm.

Spike felt like he didn’t know a single thing about himself anymore. He’d slotted himself into _her_ existence, and it was all that mattered. Nothing else felt real. Was this how she felt when she’d come to him, demanding he help her disappear from the world for a few hours at a time? He truly got it now. He understood. With her, all his turmoil vanished. Nothing mattered but the moment, and nothing existed outside of it. He was hooked and he knew that if she were to deny him again, he’d go mad without the solace of her flesh. Every other experience in his long life paled in comparison.

He was free.

Everything was suddenly building towards a crescendo, and he was soaring. Below him, he heard Buffy reach her climax, and he felt her squeeze him into oblivion.

Wholly unable to hold out, he followed her over the edge into bliss and she shuddered as the world fell away once more.

\---

Spike came back to himself with a jolt, not sure if he’d blacked out or just gone temporarily brain dead from overloading his senses. His breathing was heavy. Labored. And Buffy had her teeth against the flesh of his neck again.

Trying valiantly to collect himself as he became painfully hard once more, Spike attempted to peel their clothes off, hoping to relocate to his bedroom so that they could do it all again; so he could explore his queen more carefully, at leisure, and in a thousand different ways.

Buffy shifted herself awkwardly against him, however. Looking up at him, she shook her head and said, “Leave it on.”

It took him a moment to realize she was talking about the jacket. Of course it struck him as a little weird, but he knew all too well that she had her kinks, and he refused to dwell on it. It was only when he’d complied and she demanded that he then take her – bite her, and make her his own – that he truly stopped to think.

“What?” he said. He must have misheard. She’d never asked for that before. Not once came close.

“Claim me,” she said, more fervently. “Make your mark.”

He pulled away and looked deep into her eyes but couldn’t find any answers there. Again, he tried to shrug off the surreal sense of something out of place.

“Later,” he breathed, even as she squeezed him. “We can talk about it – _ugh!_ – later.”

Just like that, Buffy switched. Her movements ceasing, Spike could feel her anger begin to bubble up.

“Why not?” she demanded.

He was at a loss. Utterly dumbfounded. “It’s a big thing,” he reasoned, still trying to read her expression. “We haven’t talked.”

And they hadn’t. Not really. Not since he got back. He’d had all these big speeches planned, but he tossed them out the moment he saw her again. They weren’t good enough, but he’d known they’d need to confront things sooner or later; needed to work some things out if they were ever to have a chance in the future.

His brow furrowed as he tried to piece together how they’d ended up back locked together. Several of the bits didn’t match. He was struck again with the sudden knowledge that something was wrong. Trying to place all of the ill-fitting information into his sex addled brain, Spike was not prepared when Buffy shoved him off her, and he fell to the ground in a mess.

As he looked up, he could see her standing above him, the light haloed around her head as her hands went to her hips.

“You told me there was no one else!” she yelled, hysterical.

Spike got to his knees and found himself only able to repeat over and over the words, “Only you, only you!”

That seemed to placate her, for a bit. She helped him back to his feet, then began kneading the sensitive flesh around his prick in the hopes that they could get right back to it.

He went to object; to tell her that there was some vital breakdown in communication, but she told him to “sshhh,” and he found himself beginning to fall again.

His brain was fuzzy and his demon told him to stop fighting it, but when Buffy moved his head to her neck and told him to drink, he fought each and every one of his instincts and pushed back once more.

“Buffy, wait,” he pleaded.

She slapped him. Hard. And only as he processed that, did he hear the apartment door click open.


	4. Chapter 4

Xander walked into his apartment and stopped dead at the sight before him. Buffy was stood with all her clothes roughed up and Spike was sporting a mark on his face the shape of a hand.

A small, Buffy-sized hand.

Looking closer, his eyes located a pair of torn underwear beside a massive dent in the floor near where they stood.

In the next moment, he pulled a stake from his back pocket and launched himself at Spike.

He was too slow, however. Before he knew it, the vampire had bolted out the door past him.

“What the hell?!” he exclaimed, looking to Buffy for answers, at which point she burst into tears.

\---

Spike needed to get out and get drunk as quickly as possible. Buffy’s scent on his clothes was intoxicating him, but the look in her eyes before he ran kept him far too sober.

Although he had no money, he did still have a tab at Willy’s. Desperate times called for desperate measures, and figuring out how he would pay off his mounting debt was now the least of his worries.

He went over it all again in his head over a bottle of Scotch, but each time he did, it made less sense than the time before, and that wasn’t due to the alcohol.

Buffy had thrown herself at him, but why? And why now?

Flashbacks replayed as he tried and failed to stick to the simple facts of the situation. Fighting it was as pointless as telling himself he could say no to Buffy, though. In his mind’s eye, Spike saw his hands traveling up her legs, rolling up her skirt.

She was wearing a skirt. It was the first time he’d really registered that. Had she done that on purpose? Had she planned for them to sleep together again, and intentionally gave him easy access?

He shook his head. Buffy had told him she was there to see Xander. There was no reason to doubt her. No reason except that none of what happened made any bloody sense.

Spike had thought for a long time – since the last time they’d been together – that if he was to ever get another chance to touch Buffy again like that – to be with her just one last time – that he’d be able to die happy. But the reality was a million miles from that. There had been no peace following their union. Despite everything it meant to him, it was even emptier than all of their coupling the previous year.

His soul continued to scream at him that something was deeply wrong, but he just couldn’t figure it. So overwhelmed with the sensation of guilt, Spike thought he might be sick.

Sensation.

How quickly he’d given into it!

He hated himself for it; for his weakness.

He hated himself for making Buffy cry again. He’d smelt her tears hit the air as he ran.

He hated himself for running.

_Should have just let him stake me_ , he thought to himself, before looking up and coming face-to-face with his second chance.

Xander was walking in the door holding a baseball bat, flanked by Willow on one side and Anya on the other. Out of the three of them, Spike wasn’t sure which one to be more wary of.

There were rumblings in the underworld that Anya had become a vengeance demon again, and the witch had power, but Xander had pure fury and wasn’t one for being merciful and giving someone the chance to explain. Though, to be fair, Spike couldn’t have explained a thing even if he had millennia.

Despite the part of him wanting to surrender to death, a larger part of him forced himself from the chair and out in the direction of the back entrance.

The three Scoobys approached as he began backing away, and he inadvertently bumped into a demon biker, who then grabbed him by the collar of his jacket.

Spike was trapped. He looked between the biker, who suddenly had friends beside him, and Buffy’s friends, who were still stalking closer.

_It’s all over,_ he thought. Many times he had thought that he’d end up dust in a bar fight, but he’d never expected it to go down this way. Not without him fighting, or enjoying the violence of it.

Resigned and with a fresh wave of regret, he closed his eyes and let the situation take him.


	5. Chapter 5

Spike was trapped between a crowd of demon bikers who wanted to kill him, and the Slayer’s mates, who also wanted to kill him.

Resigned to his fate, and with a fresh wave of regret, he closed his eyes and let the situation take him. But a blow did not come, from either side. Instead, there was only tugging. Rough tugging, albeit.

Opening his eyes again, he heard Willow exclaim that he was “hers” while Anya said, “ _I’m_ the one he’s slept with. You’re not even straight anymore!”

To his utter shock, Xander then pitched in, “He’s coming home with me. He lives with _me_!”

The demon bikers were not letting any of them take him, however. He felt his clothes begin to rip under the strain of being pulled in several different ways at once.

“Demons belong with demons,” one of the bikers stated, to which Anya readily agreed.

When Xander tried to push her out of the way, she shoved him back none-too-lightly and his head hit off the table Spike had been sitting at just moments before.

“What the bleeding f–” he began, only to be cut off by some new person wrenching him backwards out of the growing crowd. “Buffy!”

He fell at her feet as the air got knocked out of him. She dragged him up and out the backdoor of Willy’s, bolting it behind her, but he wasn’t sure if he was relieved or not about the interference.

He went to talk – to demand some kind of explanation – only to once more be stopped in his tracks by Buffy ripping his clothes from him.

_Oh god,_ he thought, _not again!_ He hoped with all his strength that she wasn’t going to try and force herself on him again.

_Force herself._ The phrase hit him in the gut. He didn’t mean to think it, but doing so brought along with it further awful wonderings. Was this how she felt – how he made her feel when he–? Was she punishing him? Proving a point about how damaged things between them now were? Surely he hadn’t broken her so much that she now not only expected forced sex, but wanted it?

He shook his head, once more feeling physically sick. The group they had just escaped had begun hammering against the bolted door, trying to get out, and the noise – internal and ex – was all too much.

Having already torn his jacket from him and thrown it to the ground, Buffy was now putting her hand in the tight pocket of his jeans. But she did not fondle him through the cloth, this time. As soon as her hand was in, she pulled it sharply out again, and Spike saw that she had actually been retrieving his lighter. For a brief moment, he wondered if she was going to set him on fire but then she suddenly moved away from him again.

Nothing made sense. Everything around him was chaos, and he no longer found anarchy appealing at all.

Spike clutched his head in a vain attempt to block it out, then found himself looking up again as the backdoor finally gave way, and the group within all spilled out onto the ground.

Not remotely distracted from her task, Buffy set alight to Spike’s jacket a few feet away from them all. And then the world stopped as everyone became transfixed by the sight.

When the fire finally burned itself out, everyone picked themselves up and looked towards Buffy for some explanation or cue about what to do next.

Spike watched as she told the demons to either fight her or, as she put it, “piss off.” And after that, she ordered Anya and Willow to pick up Xander and take him home, with strict instructions for them to keep him there until she arrived to explain everything.

Everyone opting for the path of least resistance, the alley soon cleared of everyone but Spike and the Slayer: the former still curled in a corner – his back between a dumpster and a wall, hands above his head, still trying to protect himself from his wayward thoughts – while the latter was still stood facing the door, not looking at him.

“It was a spell,” said Buffy finally, breaking the stalemate. “The jacket was cursed.”

Spike was speechless. Everything that happened, down to a piece of clothing? _No,_ said a part of him. _Down to_ me.

“I’m sorry,” he managed, finally lowering his hands.

“Don’t,” said Buffy. She crouched down to pick something up from the burnt material. Having found what she was after, she then approached Spike and threw it at his feet. It was a label reading, ‘Ethan Rayne’s Clothing Shop.’

Spike looked up at Buffy, uncomprehending.

“Do you remember that Halloween I turned into a noblewoman?” she asked, completely catching him off guard. It took him a long moment to nod.

“The guy who made the cursed costumes apparently now has a fashion store in L.A.”

Spike opened his mouth before shutting it again, having not found any of the questions flying around his head worthy of being asked. The knowledge about the jacket’s origin didn’t make anything better, so why bother seeking more details?

“I called Giles,” Buffy continued, taking another sharp turn he didn’t expect. “I was crying about how you’d betrayed me, started ranting about how you wouldn’t sleep with me, and were probably off with someone else, and he got me to slow down and tell him everything that happened.”

She looked away, embarrassed. “Giles was able to figure out I was under some kind of spell. He asked me about anything out of the ordinary that had happened while we were talking in the kitchen, and all I could think to tell him was that you had a great new jacket.”

Again, a look of embarrassment crossed her face before she shifted her gaze to her feet. “I must have sounded so crazy. Giles was really worried and made me promise him to take the jacket and burn it, then call him back to let him know everything was back to normal.”

Silence followed for a moment, then Buffy finished by looking back at Spike. “Things haven’t been normal between us for a while,” she concluded. She held out her hand and pulled Spike up, then walked back towards the door. “Come on, you’re buying me a drink.”


	6. Chapter 6

Inside Willy’s, between a small pool of Xander’s blood and a group of angry-looking demon bikers, Buffy sat across from Spike as they drained their glasses.

When they’d first entered, Buffy had ordered several drinks at the bar, adding them to Spike’s tab, before using Willy’s private line to call Giles and then Xander.

From what Spike heard of Buffy’s side of the conversation with his enhanced vampire ears, she was not angry. That had surprised him, but he was still wary when she first brought the alcohol to the table.

“If you’re gonna stake me or tell me to get the hell out of town, could you do it now and save me the torment?” he asked. “Not that I don’t deserve torment, of course.”

Knocking back her first swig, Buffy had said, “I think we’ve had enough torment to last a lifetime. Several, in fact.”

Spike nodded grimly, but said nothing until Buffy threw him a meaningful look.

“What?”

“What you just said, did you mean it?”

“What?” he said again.

“About leaving. If I asked you now, would you?”

He paused to think about it before deciding, “Yeah, I would.” And once more he was surprised, because Buffy didn’t look happy about his answer. She didn’t remark on it further, though. Just took another drink.

They were silent for a bit after that. Spike took his first sip as Buffy downed her forth, wondering if he should suggest she slow down.

“I know what you’re thinking,” she said, then.

He simply raised his eyebrows in question.

“You’re worried I’m gonna get drunk and throw myself at you again.”

Spike shook his head and set his glass down. “You didn’t–” he began, only to be cut off by Buffy insisting, “Yes, I did. I was big with the throwing.”

“But it wasn’t–”

“I know,” said Buffy, interrupting again. “I’m not blaming myself, just saying it how it is.”

That forced Spike back to silence. His lips pressed tightly together, he asked himself again why she wasn’t angry. Perhaps she was still depressed? He got the feeling she was coming out of the blues at the end of last year but then, with what happened happening, and the loss of Tara – another good soul added to the list of many gone too soon – he wondered if she ever really got out of the slump. She didn’t _seem_ depressed, but maybe she just became a better actress in his absence.

“How come you’re not asking me if I got the jacket on purpose?” he enquired, after a while. In truth, he didn’t want to talk about it, but the question was driving him mad, locked in his head, and he felt the need to let it out.

Buffy shrugged in answer, but he knew that trusting him was not a topic she was nonchalant about. Still, he didn’t call her on it.

“Where did you get it, anyway?”

“Clothing bin,” he admitted. She didn’t seem to know what he meant, so he added, “You know the big metal things – er, dumpsters? but not quite – that you put clothes and shoes in, for charity?”

“Right, yeah,” said Buffy, before letting a look of confusion overtake her again. “Why were you near one of those?”

It was Spike’s turn to shrug. He was embarrassed about having to steal – and wasn’t _that_ a laugh! – but he knew she’d get the truth out of him eventually, one way or the other. He took another drink and got on with it. “Kinda stumbled into it, and I’d been wanting some new gear, just couldn’t afford new stuff, is all.”

“Oh.” Buffy blushed. “Sorry.”

Taken aback, Spike wondered if she was under an entirely new spell. “What the bloody hell you apologizing for, Slayer?”

She ignored him, too busy digging in her purse. Having retrieved a slightly torn twenty-dollar bill from the mess she kept in there, she then presented the note to Spike and said, “I didn’t mean to make your tab so high.”

Incredulous, he didn’t make a move to take it from her. And, after the awkward moment went on too long, Buffy called over Willy and told him to take it off the tab before Spike could stop her.

“Why are you doing this?” he asked.

“Because you’re broke,” answered Buffy. “I know what it’s like.”

“No, not the money. _This_.”

“What?”

“Being–” God, he hated himself for saying it. “Being nice to me.”

Buffy looked at him, confused, before saying, “It’s you.”

“My point exactly.”

Buffy sighed. “I have no problem with you, Spike.”

He stood up in disgust. “You what?!”

“Spike, sit down, you’re making a scene.”

“Making a–? Bloody hell, Slayer. What’s wrong with you?”

She yanked him back down into the seat across from her. “What’s wrong with me is that you’re freaking out.”

Spike opened his mouth to respond to that, but then shut it again without saying anything. He was dumbfounded.

“I’m not mad with you,” said Buffy.

“Well, you should be!” Spike insisted, raising his voice again.

Buffy glared at him. “I’m the one who gets to decide that.”

“But how are you not angry?”

“I am.”

“Come again?”

“I’m furious, just not with you. Like you said, you found the jacket. You didn’t seek it out. You didn’t make it.”

“But–”

“But nothing,” said Buffy. “You were a victim as much as the rest of us.”

Spike shook his head, but when he moved to stand up again, Buffy put a hand on his and carried on.

“It’s not the first time either of us been controlled by a spell,” she said, but the memory of all their happy wedding plans didn’t make him feel any better.

“It seems to me,” Buffy continued, “That we just keep ending up together.”

“I’m sorry,” said Spike, but Buffy ignored it and carried on.

“My first year of high school,” she said, “Xander got possessed by Hyena people and tried to rape me.”

Spike’s eyes went wide at the sudden revelation. His nostrils flared, but before he could react verbally, Buffy hit him with the next bit.

“I fought him off, obviously, and when the spell was broken he lied and said he didn’t remember anything about it. I forgave him. You know why?”

“It’s what you do,” said Spike through gritted teeth, almost as if he was angry with her for her merciful nature.

“Because it was a _spell_ ,” she said. “He wasn’t in control of himself. And then, about a year later, he did a love spell. Had everyone after him, including yours truly. Under _that_ spell, I threw myself at him and–” Buffy broke off at the murderous look in Spike’s eyes, then quickly added, “ _And_ he turned me down. The spell wasn’t for me, but did he want me, and he did say no, and I forgave him.”

If anything, Buffy’s tales had only made Spike feel worse. “I didn’t turn you down,” he pointed out, shamefully.

“But you did,” Buffy reminded him. “Several times. It was _me_ that–”

“No!” said Spike, almost yelling, before adding in a broken voice, “It wasn’t your fault! The jacket… I took it, and I shouldn’t have. It was me. I did that to you – again!” He was crying as Buffy took hold of his hand and looked deep into his eyes.

“You didn’t know,” she said, “And I don’t blame you.”

“But you should. You should!” he insisted.

“No,” said Buffy, firmly. “I don’t regret what happened. I regret the way it happened, sure. But if sleeping with you is the worst thing that ever happened to me then I call that a win.”

Hating himself for it, Spike cried harder. “You shouldn’t make light of it. It was wrong.”

“Yeah, it was wrong,” agreed Buffy, suddenly serious again. “But it happened, and dealing with it is really all we can do now.”

Spike stared at her. “What do you suggest?”

As if she’d rehearsed it, Buffy said confidently, “We finish our drinks, I go to sort things out with my friends, we all have an early night, a fresh start in the morning, and take things one step at a time from there on out.”

And now, with their glasses empty, Buffy got to her feet and held out her hand. Spike was impressed that she had got a lot better at having alcohol in her system. Reluctantly, he took her offered hand and stood up himself.

“Xander’s not gonna let me stay with him anymore, I reckon.”

“You let me deal with Xander,” said Buffy, brushing it off. “If he really has a problem with it, then we have room in our basement.”

“Right,” said Spike, forcing himself to ignore the cocktail of emotions her words induced. Not least of them, fear.

They walked halfway home in silence before Buffy broke it. “I’ve missed you,” she said. “Dawn has, too.”

“Buffy, I...” began Spike, but he was at a loss for how to finish the sentence. Finally, he came up with, “I’ve missed you, as well.”

“Spike?”

“Yeah?”

“I spoke to Angel about you getting your soul.”

That flattened him. Whatever Spike expected her to say, it hadn’t been that. “Yeah?” he said again.

Buffy had stopped walking and was now looking him directly in the eye. “Angel says no one else has ever done that. And I don’t mean completed the trials. No one even _tried_.”

Spike was speechless, and not at all sure where she was going with the topic.

“It means a lot,” she concluded. “And what I saw of you today – even though I was blinded by magic – I could see how you love me hadn’t changed. I…” she hesitated. “I think you actually love me more. Than without the soul, I mean.”

Spike simply nodded.

“I could see that,” said Buffy. “Although things were messed up, what we did, that meant something to you.”

“Meant everything,” he affirmed, so quietly he wasn’t sure if she’d actually hear him.

Looking heartened, Buffy said, “Yeah. I… it does.”

What was she saying? He didn’t dare to hope that, despite everything, he still meant… _something_ to her _._ He didn’t ask, and they started walking again, but when they got to right outside the door Buffy said something else:

“I think we’ve got a long way to go, in sorting things out. But… I want to.”


	7. Epilogue

In the weeks after the jacket incident, life got a little crazy. The school year really kicked into gear, meaning more work for both Buffy and Dawn, and the Hellmouth came further out of its summer slump, too.

But despite that, the Slayer made sure to keep time for regular chats with Spike. They were casual affairs, but clearly meant a lot to him. She was prioritizing getting their friendship back to how it had been just before he found out his chip didn’t work on her anymore, the previous year, when everything had spiraled out of control.

There were some hitches, of course, not least of which was the First Evil making an appearance and trying to control Spike, but Buffy had worked hard at breaking the link, and now he was free. Things were very casual between them, and he loved it, but he also wanted more.

Spike felt selfish for having probably the healthiest relationship he’d ever had, with the person he loved most in the world, all the while feeling unsatisfied.

When the Potentials started flooding in from every corner of the planet, he wondered if he was in danger of losing even the time to just platonically hang out with Buffy but, again, she made a conscious effort to not only schedule in time with him, but with the rest of her friends, too. She figured things could so easily become strained again, and that maintaining their bond was important not just to her sanity, but also to the mission.

Spike agreed, of course. He’d always known the Slayer’s social circle were, for the most part, a massive part of how she’d survived so long.

When free time really became limited, Buffy offered a solution that he was less sure of, however.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” he asked, for the tenth time that evening.

“I’m sure,” said Buffy. “It’ll be fine. It’s just hanging out.”

“Yeah, but hanging out with everyone. You know we don’t get along.”

Buffy shook her head, despite knowing he was right. “You’ve been a lot better, recently. Xander doesn’t insult half as much as he used to.”

Spike grinned despite himself. “That’s still a lot of insults, Slayer.”

“Oh, come on! Like you don’t do it right back,” she countered.

“That I do,” Spike agreed. “So what’s the plan?”

“Pizza and movies. Super easy.”

He nodded, hoping she was right to be optimistic. The last time he had pizza with her gang of white hats was when she was dead, but he tried not to think about that.

“If you’re a good boy, there might be a reward in it for you,” Buffy joked, seeing the unconvinced expression still on his face.

She’d been doing that a lot, lately. Joking. Flirting. Spike tried not to read into it too much, but of course that didn’t work.

For all her little jokes, there had been nothing physical between them since, well, that blasted jacket. He often dreamed about it – how it felt to have her back underneath him. Around him. But then he woke and felt guilty. Those were the days he was extra cranky with her, but she pretended not to notice.

Spike knew he shouldn’t take out his frustration on her, but he didn’t know how else to deal with it. He was staying in Buffy’s basement now, and he didn’t feel safe taking a little time to pleasure himself to take the edge off with so many teenagers running around the place. As it was, he felt fit to burst.

Despite all that, though, his worries about the evening were indeed unfounded. Just as the Slayer had predicted, movie night at Xander’s had gone well. On top of that, he was pleased to discover her earlier “joke” wasn’t actually idle teasing at all.

As they walked back to Rovello Drive, Buffy had told Willow to go on ahead without them, as she wanted to do a quick patrol. With the Witch out of sight, however, the Slayer’s real intentions became clear.

Once more, Spike found himself in a surprise lip lock. Surprise being the operative word. In his shock, he found himself simply staring at the smiling Slayer. She looked a little shy. After everything they’d done, he had no idea how she could still be shy, but there it was.

After a moment, shyness turned to defensiveness. “I had to make the first move,” she said. “You’re, like, the worst at taking hints these days!”

“Hints?” questioned Spike, still looking at her, stunned.

Buffy rolled her eyes, kissed him again, then spelt it out for him.

“I want you.”

“Oh,” said Spike, finally comprehending. After taking a moment to process it, he smiled, then looked unsure.

“This isn’t a spell,” Buffy assured him, before he asked.

“Oh,” he said again, this time with a grin.

And he kissed her back.


End file.
